


dress does not hide him

by Sibilant



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Barebacking, Crack, Established Relationship, Facials, Fluff, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, OTB, Power Play, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bane always knows what John wants and Barsad always knows how to give it to him.</p>
<p>(AKA: two mercenaries and a vigilante walk into a beauty salon - starts off as crack, slides into porn. because that's how i roll, yo)</p>
            </blockquote>





	dress does not hide him

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a fill [here](http://tdkr-kink.livejournal.com/3076.html?thread=2491140#t2491140) on the TDKR Kink Meme, now cleaned up and edited. Title comes from a line in Walt Whitman's 'I Sing the Body Electric' because I am a pretentious wanker, wut :P
> 
> Some elements of power play and Dominant/submissive play with no parameters discussed beforehand.

John’s new to this working-outside-of-the-law business.

Bane’s not (although he’s never worked on _this_ side before).

So when the guts of Gotham’s underbelly inevitably burst again, spilling out onto the streets in drive-bys and turf wars all the more vicious for the power vacuum, and John makes the decision to don the cape and cowl—

_(metaphorically; he doesn’t don_ that _cape and cowl because John has his_ own _costume – thanks very much, Lucius Fox – one that actually_ fits _because it hasn’t been moulded for a man approximately one hundred pounds heavier and fifty times more concerned with grand symbolic gestures than, say, planning out all the nitty gritty details outside of his own exit plan and– no, John doesn’t have any unresolved issues with Bruce Wayne, why do you ask?)_

—it’s Bane who does the planning. It’s Bane who researches and strategizes, resulting in efficient strikes against whichever syndicate is trying to claw its way back up the criminal totem pole that week, with a clockwork precision that could make Machiavelli weep with pride. It’s Bane who coordinates the exit routes, the diversions and all the other shit that keeps the crime rate down, the cops just one step behind them but (or so John’s ex-cop self hopes) on their (John’s) side.

John just does his best to memorise his part in the plan and busts out his own brand of tactical wizardry when the shit hits the fan (not that it often does because, yeah, Machiavellian levels of planning). When their backs are against the walls, it’s usually John who thinks of the way out first, Bane following his orders without question. He can’t strategize like Bane does, but he can think on his feet, which, unsurprisingly, turns out to be a pre-requisite for Vigilante Justice 101.

John’s the first to admit they’re both incredibly shit at looking after themselves, though.

John’s post-mission behaviour generally involves crawling into the shower before passing out in front of the TV, half-eaten bowl of Rice Krispies slowly dissolving into mush while _The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson_ blares in the background. Bane’s is arguably worse. He’ll just throw himself down on the bed (or the couch, or the floor, or – once – the poolside recliner of a grateful DA whose daughter’s kidnapping they’d just thwarted), dirt, blood and injuries be damned.

Looking after them, however, is where Barsad excels. He covers John and Bane from up high, dismantles security cameras to ease their escapes, stays behind to ensure Bane’s diversions go off successfully. His care extends into everything that he does. He field strips and cleans his rifle after every mission—

_(“I shoot to wound, John, I only shoot to wound. Really. Stop making that face, John.”)_

—each movement so focused, practiced and _tender_ that John invariably gets jealous. _Of a fucking rifle_. Then, and only then – when he’s done cheating on John with a _rifle_ – does he haul John upright, force him to eat something not out of a packet, and deposit him on the bed beside Bane, before silently disappearing into the bathroom and reappearing with wet cloths, bandages and antiseptic to clean Bane up.

Barsad excels at watching over them in the field and at taking care of them out of it.

So when their hit on a riverside smuggling operation goes wrong – Bane’s preternatural planning abilities unfortunately don’t come with the ability to dissipate freak storms that reduce visibility to fucking _zero_ – and they make it out alive only by kicking the smuggler Rupert Thorne into Gotham River and stealing his car, it’s Barsad who directs them to Bludhaven.

 

* * *

 

John’s never been to Bludhaven before but Barsad clearly has, so John’s content to walk where Barsad leads them – trusts Barsad’s knowledge of post-battle wind down procedures or whatever Bane and Barsad’s undoubtedly overly-militaristic term for it is.

Until he actually reads the name of their destination.

Then he digs his heels into the pavement.

It forces Barsad to jerk to a halt alongside him. “What?” Bane, walking ahead, also stops and looks back at John curiously.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?” John says. “We’re going in _there_?” He can’t stop staring. The signage has glittery bits. Reflected light off the neon signs makes it shimmer.

Barsad looks at the sign, then back at John, expression completely placid. “It will help you relax,” he says. His tone of voice is exactly the same as the one he uses when saying “rattan is still a better material than high-density synthetic polymer for Eskrima sticks” or “I’ll be covering your approach from the eastern entrance”. It’s a tone of voice which indicates Barsad means exactly what he says.

Except when Barsad gets in a mood to mess with John’s head, because then he’ll still use the _exact same tone of voice._ Because he’s a bastard like that.

John’s pretty sure Barsad’s not fucking around with him this time, though. Bane nodding in agreement with Barsad is boosting that certainty.

“It will help me—” John can’t even process this. “Barsad, this place is called _Hair Force One_.” He can’t inject enough disbelieving horror into his voice. Repeat viewings of _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ franchise could not inject enough horror into John’s voice.

Barsad looks at the sign again. “Is it the name? Because they actually do skin care and aromatherapy as well.”

And, all right, Barsad’s _definitely_ fucking around with him there by playing dumb; John can see it in the twitching corner of his mouth, the way his eyes light up when John’s cheeks go red.

But John’s still certain Barsad actually means for them to go inside.

Barsad and Bane wait him out patiently. They’ve waited much longer, John knows. They’ve sat perfectly motionless for hours, performing surveillance with a kind of patience that puts John’s detective days to shame.

John grits his teeth. Puts a hand over his eyes. His life nowadays. He can’t even— “Okay. Fine. Let’s go inside.”

 

* * *

 

The salon proprietor is a League of Shadows ally, of course. Even with their about-face on the subject of destroying Gotham and their on-going efforts to make sure John doesn’t expire in a dark alley somewhere, Bane and Barsad can hardly just stroll into any random salon to request a mud bath and thirty minute aromatherapy session.

Being a League of Shadows-friendly business, however, means the salon’s decidedly… off. John counts no less than five cabinets displaying skin care products which he’s sure double as weapons caches. And the beauticians – whilst John absolutely believes they’re beauticians, they’ve got certificates on the wall and everything – wield their scissors and nail files with an alarming kind of precision.

John opts to just get his hair washed and blow dried, uncertain and wrong-footed amongst the myriad other options, although the beauticians seem eager to explain them all to him. It means he ends up finished well before either Barsad or Bane, who’ve opted for a pedicure and a manicure, respectively. He stares as they sit – still in their cobbled together _military gear_ – with beauticians at their hands and feet, massaging and filing away according to some mysterious procedure.

John thinks his concept of reality is fracturing a little at the edges.

It breaks entirely when a little girl – the salon owner’s daughter, judging by the woman’s indulgent expression – merrily skips up to Bane and takes him by the hand not currently being buffed by the beautician, peering at his mask with fearless curiosity.

_It’s the League of Shadows training,_ John thinks. _They produce women with zero comprehension of fear._

“Yes, child?” Bane says. The girl regards his mask for a little longer then looks down at the hand engulfing her tiny one.

“You have big hands,” she informs him, matter-of-fact.

Bane nods gravely. “This is true.”

The girl is silent again for a little while before producing a tiny bottle which, John belatedly realises, is a bottle of nail polish. It’s pink. There are _heart-shaped little sparkles_ in it. “Can I paint your nails?” she asks. The beautician working on Bane’s hands fusses at her, but she barrels on brightly, “Only mama says I can’t paint other people’s fingernails because I get the polish on their fingers, but your fingernails are big so I won’t miss, and I want to paint your fingernails.”

John gapes. He’s vaguely aware of Barsad laughing – probably at John’s expression, he wouldn’t dare laugh at Bane, even if they are all sleeping together now – but he can’t close his mouth.

Bane gives the little girl a solemn nod, like he’s agreeing to a sacred pact. “Very well.”

“Yay!” The girl settles herself beside Bane and makes him lay his broad hand flat on the table, so that it’s still and stable for her to work on. She unscrews the bottle with exaggerated care, wipes the excess polish off the brush, then gets to work on Bane’s fingernails. Bane sits, quiet and still, as she paints slow strokes down his nails. When she switches to his other hand and decides it would be easier for her see by sitting on his knee, he doesn’t make a sound, although he shifts so that she’s sitting more securely and less likely to tumble off if she leans too far.

John wonders if this is what Bane was like with Talia, down in the Pit, before Ra’s al Ghul and everything horrible that came after, patient and indulgent with all her whims. It’s a bittersweet thought, given what Talia had become, but it brings a small smile to his face anyway, to see Bane like this now.

He glances over and meets Barsad’s knowing smile.

John really ought to get back at him for messing with him outside the salon.

“You know, you should probably do Barsad’s fingernails too,” he says to the girl, who’s just finishing up Bane’s pinkie nail. The garish pink clashes horribly with Bane’s light tan, and John loves him for it. Projecting all the earnestness he’s cultivated over the years of being John Blake, Model Gotham Citizen, he adds, “After practicing on Bane, you’re probably ready to try smaller fingernails.”

Barsad’s eyebrows go up and he stares John down with an expression that says clearly ‘I see the shit you are pulling’. John smirks at him.

Then Barsad, not breaking his gaze, holds his hand out to the girl.

Now it’s John’s turn for his eyebrows go up. He hadn’t actually expected Barsad to go along with it, the contrary asshole. Barsad’s answering smirk says that he knows.

John watches as Barsad subjects himself to the same treatment as Bane, although he’s not quiet throughout like Bane was. Barsad chats idly with her as she paints, so the process takes much longer as the girl stops to answer his questions. She’s six, Barsad’s line of questioning reveals; she likes watching _Mulan_ although she doesn’t approve of the sequel; the nail polish is called _Nothing Mousie ‘Bout It_ ; she’s home-schooled and she doesn’t much like it, but she likes the kids at the local PS even less.

John watches with quiet wonder as they talk, Bane joining in with a comment every now and then that makes the girl turn to him and beam, dripping nail polish everywhere as she turns. He’s hit with a rush of affection so intense it makes him breathless for a moment. These two men, _honestly_.

They’re just about done, the little girl hopping over to John – clearly intending to ask if she can do his nails too – when the door to the salon slams open and three balaclava-masked men burst in, semi-automatics at the ready.

John reacts instinctively, dives and catches the girl easily up in his arms, rolls so that they end up behind the counter. She’s wide-eyed and her mouth is open, but she doesn’t make a sound; clever kid. John peers out around the edge of the counter. The thieves have moved all the way into the middle of the salon now, waving their weapons in the air with over-confident swagger.

“All right,” the one closest to the counter hollers. “I’m sure you all know how this is going to go down, so everyone just get down on the ground, nice and quiet, the and good lady over there will open her register, put the money in the bag, and then we’ll be outta here.”

None of the staff move. Nor do Bane or Barsad. _Ha,_ John thinks. _I knew they were all League._ He freely admits that he can be vain about his detective instincts, sometimes.

“What are you doing?” Bane asks slowly. The unfortunate thug closest to Bane pales and goes silent, barrel of his gun drooping, like his confidence.

The seeming leader, still facing forward, doesn’t notice. “Man, shut up, do you really think you’re in a position to be asking questions--” he blusters, pointing his gun blindly behind him before swinging himself around. Then he catches sight of Bane reclining at the manicure table – the unbelievable breadth and bulk of him - and, more importantly, catches sight of the _mask_.

He freezes.

“I appear to be in a perfectly reasonable position to be asking questions,” Bane says, voice genial. And, because he can be just as much of a bastard as Barsad, he looks down at the chair he’s sitting in with exaggerated concern, like maybe it isn’t worthy of being an inquisitor’s chair.

Then he casts a quick glance at John, coiled and ready behind the counter, and Barsad, sitting loose-limbed and confident beside him.

There’re three gunmen. And there are three of them.

Too easy.

“I—” is all the leader manages to get out before John bursts out from behind the counter, driving the heel of his palm up against the man’s chin. John sweeps the man’s gun hand out and away with his other arm. The idiot pulls the trigger reflexively; fires once, twice, into the wall, and his accomplices react with unthinking panic, blindly firing, before twin shouts of pain signal to John that Bane and Barsad have probably taken them down.

John’s guy is still trying to back away, though. John lunges in close, changes his grip to grab the man by the jacket lapels and head butts him _hard_.

The man crumples without a word.

John looks up. Bane and Barsad have their chosen targets pinned to the floor with crippling efficiency. One member of the League of Beauticians is already collecting the guns; others are approaching with zip ties and rope, whilst others still are bringing out brooms and dust pans to sweep up broken mirror glass and shattered wood.

John leaves them to it when he spies the little girl still crouched behind the counter. He scoops her up, checking her over for injuries. The gunfire had brought down a spray of glass and broken wood around the counter, but she seems unhurt. She’s breathing quickly but quietly and her face is calm, not blank with shock.

“Everything’s okay,” John says anyway, automatic, as he watches Bane and Barsad securing the would-be thieves with rope. Their efficiency really is quite distracting. The nail polish on their fingers sparkles incongruously under fluorescent lighting.

John’s not really sure why he can’t stop staring.

He thinks of those hands, deadly and assured, holding _him_ down—

“I’d like to get down now,” the girl says, gazing at him. She wriggles impatiently in John’s hold, so John puts her down, mindful of the glass. The girl bounces off toward her mother, who welcomes her into her arms, grim-faced.

_That’s the face of a person thinking about how to explain this to their insurer,_ John thinks.

Aloud, he says, “We should probably get out of here,” then blinks. His voice is unexpectedly wrecked, low and husky, and John probably shouldn’t be using that voice when there’s a minor present.

Both Bane and Barsad blink at him too, although Bane’s expression changes the instant he makes eye contact with John. His gaze intensifies to a terrifying sort of focus, intense to the point that John can see the knife-sharp edge of him, dangerous and mind-searingly hot. John stares back, hypnotised.

Then Bane suddenly relaxes, all intensity seemingly gone. A sliver of it remains, though. John can see it in his eyes because, goddamn it, he can’t stop staring.

By that point, Barsad’s expression has changed too, and he’s looking back and forth between John and Bane with an amused and exasperated fondness, lust banked lazily in his smile. “Let’s go, then,” he says lightly.

 

* * *

 

“Perhaps we should drive back to Gotham?”

“Fuck, no. Just get a hotel room.”

“You’ve certainly developed expensive tastes. Any preferences?”

“Shut up, Barsad. And I want the closest one with a king bed.”

 

* * *

 

The hotel door slams shut behind John and he stalks over to stand in front of Bane and Barsad. They’re already on the couch, watching him. Barsad’s watching him with that flat look he gets when he’s thinking about his next move and he’s refusing to talk until he’s figured it out, while Bane’s expression—

Bane’s expression is speculative and John’s reminded again of the fathomless intelligence that enabled Bane to co-ordinate a series of simultaneous strikes that crippled an entire city. John can rarely hide anything from Bane, not that he often tries.

He thinks again of the patient, steady way Bane had sat whilst the little girl had climbed all over him; the way Barsad had coaxed her into talking with them. Thinks also of the casual menace in Bane’s voice at the salon, the confident line of Barsad’s body as they secured the gunmen, despite the stupid, ridiculous polish on their hands and he wants— he wants to be thrall to that, compliant under those hands, giving over all control—

Bane and Barsad are always more than happy to let John dictate what they do in bed. They have their preferences but – through some silent, mutual agreement – tend to prize John’s whims first, wait for him to voice – sometimes hesitant, sometimes pleading, other times demanding – whatever desire enters his head. It never, ever fails to send a jolt to his dick, being the focus of their joint attention; the hot, heady knowledge that he has such power over them, over _these_ men, but John doesn’t want that right now. Doesn’t want anything like it this time.

He wants to drop to his knees. Has a fever-hot image of dragging Bane’s zipper down with his teeth whilst palming Barsad’s cock, Bane’s voice and Barsad’s voice issuing commands for him to do God-knows-what but John will do it. He’ll do anything they ask, if they just _tell_ him—

John comes back to himself abruptly.

Barsad’s moved off the couch to stand behind him, although Bane appears content to continue watching John from the couch. The smile is evident in his eyes. Then Barsad curls an arm around John, brushes his fingers across John’s mouth – John darts his tongue out as the fingers pass, tastes the salty warmth of Barsad’s skin – and down to curl around his jaw. Considering. Assessing.

John shivers.

“We know what you want,” Bane says, then glances at Barsad over John’s shoulder. And then Barsad’s hands are _on_ John’s shoulders, pushing him down before Bane. John sinks down to his knees.

Bane always knows what John wants and Barsad always knows how to give it to him.

Breathing quickly, John leans forward, drags Bane’s zipper down with his teeth – just like he’d imagined – the metallic taste sharp like blood against his tongue. He’s gentle as he pulls Bane out from his boxer briefs, mindful of the zipper teeth, before he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and suckles the head. Bane’s especially fond of being sucked off and John loves doing it for him – loves it so much that every time he does it, he immediately sucks Bane down as deep as he can, as fast as he can, massaging the root since he can’t get Bane in all the way – but this time John doesn’t get much further than one good suck before Barsad’s fingers wind in his hair, gentle-firm, and _tug_.

“No,” he says, as he settles himself to kneel behind John, all easy assurance that John will listen, and John _does_ , cock throbbing at the rasp he can already hear in Barsad’s voice. Christ.

John pants shallowly, thinking _yes_ , this is what he wants, and glances up at Bane. Bane says nothing, although his breathing sounds artificially slow and even. He makes no move to touch John and now neither he nor Barsad are _saying_ anything and John _wants_ so badly—

“What,” he croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “What do you want me to do?”

He hears the satisfaction in Barsad’s wordless hum and Bane rumbles approvingly. Bane cups John’s cheek for a moment before glancing at Barsad again, communicating voicelessly. John can’t see Barsad’s expression – can’t turn his head at all, really, with his hair still held firmly in Barsad’s grip – but he can feel Barsad’s smile against the curve of his shoulder. Barsad raises his mouth to John’s ear and says, “Slow. Go slow. Don’t use your hand, just your mouth. Keep it nice and wet for him. And don’t start until I say you can start.”

Bane makes a small noise – a quiet, breathy groan – and his thighs, bracketing John in, flex once. But he leans back into the couch and spreads his legs further in a filthy, blatant invitation. John's mouth goes dry and his heartbeat thunders in his ears. He wants to push his face into Bane’s lap and _suck_ , but Barsad hold in his hair stays firm.

“Hands flat on his thighs,” Barsad says. He licks slowly along the curve of John’s ear, making John’s dick twitch, and nips John’s earlobe in approval when John complies. He’s pressed up firmly against John’s back now. John can feel the strength coiled in that body, wants to grind back against the hard length pressing against his ass, but he doesn’t.

He won’t, until Barsad or Bane tells him to.

It ought to scare him, make him want to jump out of his skin, how badly he wants to give himself over to these two men – mercenaries, killers, one-time terrorists. But the memory of Bane’s steadiness and Barsad’s quiet patience with a little girl anchors him down. Reminds him that it’s not all that they are, just as he is more than just Nightwing or former Detective John Blake. They won’t hurt him, won’t betray this trust he’s putting in them.

John trusts them to catch him when he lets himself go.

“Good boy,” Barsad breathes into his temple, as if reading John’s thoughts. He lets go of John’s hair and rests his hand on the back of John’s neck, not pushing, but not letting John move away either. “Go on,” he murmurs.

John goes.

It’s the messiest, noisiest fucking blowjob he’s ever given. He can’t use his hands to keep Bane steady and he can’t get more than half of Bane into his mouth, ends up sucking sloppily. But he makes sure to move slowly – mindful of Barsad’s instructions – runs his tongue along the length of Bane’s cock to get it filthy wet before opening his mouth obscenely wide, tries to take as much in as he can anyway. And it’s a struggle; it’s a fucking struggle not to speed up as Bane’s breathing spikes, becomes increasingly uneven.

John’s shoulders are tight and tense – both from the effort of holding himself up and keeping his hand off his own dick – and Barsad, fucking asshole that he is, starts massaging John’s shoulders, biting and sucking at the nape of John’s neck, all the while grinding up against his ass. The constant movement means John’s dick is constantly being rubbed up against the inside of his pants, the pressure just this side of painful but still _not enough_ , and he whimpers around Bane’s girth.

Bane’s making small, aborted jerking motions with his hips now, his dick almost continuously leaking pre-come onto John’s tongue. His erratic breathing slides into long, chest-deep groans, and John sucks harder, barely remembers to keep going at the same slow speed Barsad had set; he wants the bitter-salt tang of Bane’s come in his mouth, can almost taste it and—

“Enough.”

John’s brain is just processing the word, just managing to grasp the meaning of it, when a hand twists into his hair again, and jerks his head up and off Bane’s cock. John makes a desperate noise when he realises it was _Bane_ who’d done it. Bane’s breaths rasp loudly through the mask, and his eyes are bright and hot. “ _Enough_ , John.”

Behind him, Barsad chuckles although it slips into a gasp on the end as he keeps twisting his hips, but slower now, as they both wait for whatever Bane’s planning. John stares up at Bane, and Bane’s eyes crinkle in affection – at the dazed, unfocused expression on John’s pretty sure is on his face – and he presses his thumb briefly against John’s swollen lower lip.

“You’re going to take this off,” he says, running a proprietary hand over John’s shirt, and John smiles, glad to know Bane’s not so unaffected as he’s trying to pretend. He rarely uses contractions until he’s sunk so deeply into body sensation that words become a hindrance.

John shimmies quickly out of his shirt, starts to unbuckle his belt when Bane’s hand on his arm stops him. “Barsad will do that,” he says, although the words come out more slowly than they would otherwise.

Barsad reaches around, quickly palms John’s cock – just hard enough to make John thrust forward into that welcome, needed pressure – before moving his hand back to John’s belt, snickering into John’s ear when John swears under his breath. He unzips John with quick, certain movements – John thinks giddily of Barsad stripping down his rifle – and then Barsad’s urging his pants off, leaving John blessedly free. He’s been leaking so much pre-come his pants probably aren’t re-wearable.

Barsad bites John gently on the shoulder, then looks up at Bane. “Shall we move to the bed?” he asks. His fingers trail along John’s thigh, seemingly idle. Only they’re not, John knows, because Barsad’s an appalling cocktease and loves torturing John any which way he can.

“I like what I can see from here,” Bane grates out, gentle fingers in John’s hair softening the mechanical harshness of his voice.

“You would have me ruin the cartilage in my knees?” Barsad grumbles, only half-joking.

“Would he not be worth it?” Bane says in reply, thumbing John’s mouth again, but he stands and moves to the bedroom. John only rises when Barsad’s hand coaxes him up and he’s suddenly dizzy, warmed by the pleased smile he gets from Barsad in response.

“Who would have thought you could be so compliant?” Barsad asks, gentle awe in his voice. The honest affection in his voice – always so carefully hidden away, even more so than Bane’s – makes John tremble. He wants to lie back on the bed, spread his legs, offer himself up to Barsad, to Bane, fearless and trusting.

John glances at Bane waiting for them on the bed, eyes dark and watchful. Remembers the knowing smile in his eyes _(“We know what you want”)_ and finds himself saying, a touch drily, “I think Bane may have had an idea.”

Barsad snorts but doesn’t argue and, to John’s shock, wraps a hand around the back of John’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Barsad’s a clever kisser; direct, for all that he teases John in everything else. He kisses John now, open mouthed, touching his tongue to the tip of John’s and biting at his lip before slotting their mouths together again, and John can’t stop the whimper that slips from his throat.

They don’t kiss often, mindful of Bane. They’re reluctant to do so even when Bane isn’t around, though Bane never comments when they do kiss in front of him. John’s always thought his silence said plenty.

But the quiet noise Bane makes from the bed is nothing like pain, nothing like disappointment and – when John breaks the kiss, panting, to looks over – he’s taken his vest off and pushed his pants down just enough so he can palm his cock, big hand stroking up and down the length slowly. Watching them intently. Through the window, the sun starts sinking below the horizon, washing the room in brilliant shades of red and orange, limns Bane’s skin a warm gold and John goes breathless all over again. He wants to touch; wants to crawl over Bane and run his tongue down his stomach and further.

Barsad grins at him suddenly, sharp and dazzling, and pushes John toward the bed. It had been a gentle reprieve from the intensity on the couch, but it couldn’t last.

John wants them too much for that.

John’s compliant – which gets him another pleased though quick kiss from Barsad – as Barsad arranges him the way he likes, on his elbows and knees, limbs bracketing Bane’s legs. Bane’s hand comes up the instant John’s arranged over him, crooking two fingers into John’s mouth as he continues jerking himself slowly with his other hand.

John sucks his fingers in immediately. “Remember what Barsad told you,” Bane says with a rumbling laugh, but there’s a hitch in his voice. John slows down immediately, trembling. He ought to be embarrassed by how quickly he complies. He normally would be, but here, now, he can’t find it in himself to feel ashamed.

He can hear Barsad moving around behind him, shedding his clothes. Bane pants something out in Arabic; John hears Barsad reply in kind. The bed dips as Barsad climbs on too. Then Barsad’s stubble is scraping along John’s neck, and his slick-wet fingers – competent, _teasing_ fingers – are at John’s entrance, circling but not pushing in, and _God_ John needs it, almost takes his mouth away from Bane’s fingers so he can beg for it. He stops himself just in time, but Bane notices immediately.

John can’t hide this from him, just like he can’t hide anything else.

Bane pulls his fingers out of John’s mouth, almost reluctantly it seems, and says, “What do you want, John?” Holds his palm against John’s forehead, like a parent to a child, to stop John from taking his fingers back into his mouth.

John shakes his head. _No_ , this isn’t what he wants, he wants them to tell him—

“I want to hear you, John. And I _want to hear you beg for it,_ ” Bane says sharply, with the voice he uses on his subordinates in the League. The commanding force of it hits John like a freight truck, curls around his cock, makes him whine. “ _Beg._ Tell us what you want.”

“Please,” John breathes out, too stunned and turned on now to be embarrassed at how wrecked his voice sounds, “Please, I need—”

Barsad presses the tip of his finger in but no more, shifts to John’s side so John can see his face, the sly curve of his smile.

“Mmm? Go on, John,” Bane says, still sliding his hand up and down his prick, and it must be torture for him, John thinks, he knows it must be. The stop-start nature of what they’ve been doing for— God, it feels like hours, though he knows it to be far less.

“I want your fingers,” he says in a rush, looking at Barsad. Then – remembering Bane’s command – amends it to: “Please. Please fuck me with your fingers.”

“That’s a boy, John,” Bane praises and John _shouts_ as Barsad slides his fingers in, two fingers from the get go, deft and certain, crooking them against John’s prostate. John arches his back and rocks down, panting, the pleasure skittering along his nerves, coiling at the base of his cock. Bane rumbles deep in his chest as he watches and John pulls himself together enough to say, “Please, let me suck you, I want to, please, I want--” and _God_ it feels good to beg.

Bane pushes himself up on to his knees, suddenly urgent, and offers himself to John. John pushes up onto hands and knees to meet him; sucks him down with greedy gratitude. Bane rocks his hips, rough against John’s lips, moving in counterpoint to Barsad’s fingers in John’s ass. And it’s _good_ , it’s so unbelievably good that John almost buckles when Barsad pulls his fingers out, but the temporary feeling of loss is chased away when Barsad kneels up behind him, slides the length of his slicked cock along John’s cleft.

“Look at you,” Bane murmurs, voice thick and dark. “Look how much you want it.” He doesn’t stop thrusting and John tilts his head back to take in more. He feels more than hears Bane’s groan.

Barsad joins in, from over and behind John, “So _greedy_ , John. I’m going to fuck you, little bird. And you want that. You do, don’t you?”

_God, their voices_. John can’t do anything but whimper.

“That’s good, John,” Barsad says, razor-sharp grin his voice. And then he says something else, something not in English but dark and obscene-sounding, but John isn’t paying attention anymore because Barsad’s sliding into him, _pushing_ into him slowly without stopping. John arches, whining high in his throat and not caring how it sounds, as his body lights up from the pleasure and the knife-edge of pain.

Bane laughs, although it’s breathless and cuts off abruptly, nothing like his usual slow chuckle. “You’re exquisite, John. Look at you. You can take this. You’re made for this, aren’t you? Made for _us_ ,” he says, as Barsad keeps pushing into John relentlessly, as John’s back bows when Barsad bottoms out. John can’t talk, just keeps sucking, lifts himself off a little and back onto Barsad’s cock and _oh fuck, yes—_

For all Barsad’s teasing beforehand, the pace he sets is punishing now. He doesn’t wait for John to adjust, doesn’t seem like he _can_ wait now, gripping John’s hips and fucking into him with hungry abandon. But John’s ready, has _been_ ready since they were kneeling before Bane on the couch, so he pushes back onto Barsad’s cock before letting the momentum push his mouth back down Bane’s length.

And then Bane grabs him by the hair, holds him still and _fuck_ , this is something Bane _never_ does, has always been skittish about. Never admitting it, but always worrying about his strength, about hurting John, about forcing him without realising. It sends a renewed burst of arousal to John’s cock, that Bane trusts him enough to let go now, just as John trusts them to take care of him. And John’s grateful, so fucking grateful; he wants to make it good for Bane, as good as he can make it. He sucks harder, faster, breathing noisily through his nose, makes a mess, trying to say without words that he understands, that he appreciates it—

Bane’s cock grows impossibly harder in John’s mouth and then he’s shouting, pulling out of John’s mouth unexpectedly. And John’s gasping a second later when the first splatter of come hits his cheek, then another, then more across his mouth; marking him, hot and wholly possessive.

The sight of it seems to go straight to Barsad’s head. He snaps his hips savagely, pushes John down to his elbows, even as Bane goes crashing backwards onto the pillows. He hitches John’s hips up higher, fucks into John faster. His need makes John grin – sharp and raw – and he arches, twisting his hips. He can’t help but tease Barsad back a little, in the never-ending push-pull nature of their relationship. Barsad hisses and gives him a brutal thrust back.

Bane watches them with a heavy-lidded, sated gaze; amused. Then, with easy strength, he pushes John up while simultaneously pulling Barsad down, so Barsad ends up leaning all along the length of John’s back. It pushes their faces incredibly close. If John twists his head he could kiss Barsad, but—

John looks back at Bane, wide eyed. Bane reclines back, eyes smiling. Then Barsad’s fingers are gripping John’s chin, turning his head. Barsad’s tongue flicks out – quick and clever as the rest of him – licks the come from John’s cheek and lips, before he claims John’s mouth in a bruising kiss, still claiming John’s body with hard, quick thrusts.

John has to pull away eventually, to draw in a ragged breath as the pleasure spikes up and _up_ , shivering across John’s skin and throbbing along his cock. It makes him frantic, makes him reach down between his legs, but Bane’s _“No,”_ coincides almost perfectly with Barsad catching his hand and forcing it back down.

“You can come just like this, can’t you?” Barsad adds, voice just as rough as Bane’s without the mask, fucking into John recklessly.

“Oh, fuck,” John groans. “Oh, God, oh fuck, fuck—“ But they’re right; of course they’re fucking right. Barsad gives one particularly vicious twist of his hips and John’s coming, back arching and body taut. John thinks he may have screamed, something wordless and harsh, as stars explode behind his clenched eyelids and Barsad – _impossibly_ – speeds up.

He doesn’t stop, even when John’s arms buckle and he drops forward, because Bane’s there, ready to catch him. John clings to Bane’s shoulders, panting, as Barsad’s grip tightens— and then Barsad’s crying out, snapping his hips – once, twice, three times – and goes to pieces before them.

 

* * *

 

John wakes after the sun’s gone down completely.

Bane’s still out on his back but, amazingly, so is Barsad. They’d all collapsed together; limbs entangled, faces close, but had migrated away in their sleep into their own little pockets of space.

It makes getting out of bed without waking them easier.

But when he returns – hands full of damp towels – he can’t prevent the bed from dipping and jostling them both into wakefulness.

Barsad blinks at him in the gloom as John carefully wipes them down. “Don’t I usually do this?” His voice is devoid of all the wryness, the sharp edges and the teasing. Full of soft wonder instead. John finds that he likes it, though he wouldn’t give up Barsad’s prickliness for the world.

John shrugs. “It’s a good thing to change things up in a relationship. I’ve heard that’s healthy.”

“Really,” Barsad says.

Bane chuckles from beside them, runs a finger down John’s arm, over Barsad’s mouth. Barsad can’t keep up the mock-stern set of his mouth at that. “It does us good to expand beyond our comfort zones.”

“See?” John says, as he throws the towels at the laundry hamper.

Barsad snorts but flips the covers back, a clear directive for John to come back to bed.

John wriggles back down into the space between them, slings a leg over Barsad’s hip and rests his head on Bane’s broad chest. Pulls the covers up over them completely, though he knows both Bane and Barsad will grumble about overheating when they wake. John closes his eyes and smiles. Tomorrow, they’ll go back to the status quo: John flinging himself into the fray with Gotham’s gangs, Bane at his side in the shadows and Barsad watching over them both.

They are his anchors and he is theirs.

John lets the comforting solidity of their bodies slowly drag him back down to sleep.


End file.
